


Just Yours

by MasqueofRedDeath



Category: Captain America (2011)
Genre: Dancing, M/M, Serum!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:18:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasqueofRedDeath/pseuds/MasqueofRedDeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky lets out a breath he's all too aware he's been holding, caught on Steve’s face; shy, sweet, with that little expectant smile of his. He recognises the song as Yours by Vera Lynn and his chest gets all tight. Steve holds out his hand and Bucky slowly crosses the room, conscious of how dirty and tired he must look. Steve doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does he doesn’t care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Yours

**Author's Note:**

> I've never loved anyone  
> The way I love you  
> How could I  
> When I was born to be  
> Just yours...

Steve has some pull with how things are run in the camp base the Howling Commandos are staying in. More pull than Bucky could ever imagine having himself, but somehow the authority fits Steve like a glove. He makes sure things are done right, that his men have the training time they need, that other soldiers in the camp treat them as Special Ops instead of a traveling clown show some troupes seem to think they are. Only one man dared to call the Howling Commandos "Captain America and his merry men" before receiving a fist to the uvula. 

Steve's pull in the camp goes beyond that. He manages to get a tent to himself, set up a little ways away from the tent his team is sleeping in. The plan is to stay for a week before rolling out and up into the mountains on another lengthy HYDRA raid and every night Steve and Bucky sit up in Steve’s tent, planning until they both feel as though they’re going to give out from exhaustion. 

On the last day of their stay, stiff with nerves and a fear that he refuses to acknowledge, Bucky makes his way up from the mess, sore to the bone from another day of training. Steve usually trains with the other Commandos, but for some reason that day he had been pulled off the field by a couple junior officers. Bucky doesn’t like that, if only because Bucky can’t keep an eye on him. It's hard to watch someone's back when you don't know where they've gone.

He can handle himself, Bucky had thought. He always has. 

Bucky pulls his hands through his gritty hair, opening the flap to Steve’s tent. The soft music meets his ears before he looks up. The tent is lit different, the lamps moved around so that not only is the planning table is illuminated. Everything looks much brighter this way, including Steve. The table and the cot are pushed far off the the side, leaving an expanse of stamped down grass. Steve stands in the middle of the now spacious tent, fidgeting with the cuffs of his clean service uniform, probably the only clean thing he owns. 

Steve is so handsome. He has always been so handsome. Even when he was short and thin Bucky had had no real eyes for anyone else. Bucky remembers his twiggy little arms sticking out of his rolled up sleeves, thick knuckles all cut up. Steve never gave them a chance to heal. He remembers the cheap slacks that were three sizes too big, the ones that Steve wore all of the time. He only put on the pants that fit when he was going somewhere special because they had cost him so much to get tailored right. He remembers and loves that Steve but he can't ignore this new Steve and the effect he has.

Steve cuts such an immaculate figure in military dress that it feels like Bucky’s been hit in the gut. 

“So this is why you left early?” he asks, trying to sound untouched. It doesn’t work. 

Steve shrugs. “I had to set up.”

“And the officers?” 

“They were telling me Howard dropped off the songs.”

Bucky lets out a breath he's all too aware he's been holding, caught on Steve’s face; shy, sweet, with that little expectant smile of his. He recognises the song as Yours by Vera Lynn and his chest gets all tight. Steve holds out his hand and Bucky slowly crosses the room, conscious of how dirty and tired he must look. Steve doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does he doesn’t care.

“Steve…” he starts. 

Steve wraps one arm around him and joins their fingers together, shaking his head slightly and Bucky knows enough not to speak. They haven’t danced since before the war, when Bucky would lie and say they needed practice and Steve would go along with it. One of Steve’s rules was always no talking. Talking ruins a dance. So Bucky doesn’t talk. He rests his free hand on Steve’s shoulder and tucks his head under Steve’s chin, thinking that it should feel backwards, but knowing it doesn't. It doesn't matter who leads, just as long as they're together. Bucky takes care of Steve and Steve takes care of Bucky. 

Back and forth, always, like a never-ending dance. Not as smooth as the one that carries Bucky across the floor. He’s trying not to be sentimental but he can’t help but think it’s a perfect song for them to dance to. Steve and Bucky belong to each other, with each other.

Steve’s fingers tighten around Bucky’s fingers and he begins singing along softly, so soft that Bucky can barely hear it. “Yours till the stars lose their glory, yours till the birds fail to sing; yours for the end of life's story, this pledge to you dear I bring…” He shivers, inhaling that sharp scent that is so distinctly Steve, one that he’d thought he was never going to smell again. 

But Steve came for him. Of course he did. 

Steve kisses the shell of his ear and spins him and Bucky closes his eyes, imagining that Steve is small again and they’re alone in their apartment, listening to the radio. It’s not cold, not muddy. He doesn’t know how to use a gun and they’re just practicing again, just remembering their footing for when they take the girls out at night. Only Steve is just a little bit closer this time and Bucky holds him a little tighter and this memory is his favourite because when he goes to pull away, Steve ropes him back in and pulls his chin down with a crooked finger. 

That was their first kiss. 1938, before the war, a lifetime away and yet right on their heels—Bucky opens his eyes. Steve is so much taller, so different, but the exact same. The song slows and ends and Steve rests his forehead against Bucky’s. Bucky slides his hand up from Steve’s shoulder, resting it against the side of Steve’s neck. He leans into it without a thought, letting out a breath that fans across Bucky’s face. His breath is sweet and Bucky knows that his own smells like stew. The song has changed to the more melancholy We’ll Meet Again. 

They meet eyes. Steve's eyes have are so blue, deep blue, and now his pupils are wider than normal. Bucky has always found blue eyes to be icy but Steve's are always so warm, framed with golden lashes, underscored with a sprinkle of freckles across his nose that Steve didn't notice until Bucky pointed them out. He knows, looking into Steve's eyes, that Steve is thinking about him. Because there's a spark, one that he gets when he stops to realize that their time together is limited no matter the circumstances and they need to make each second count. 

This is the part where people say “I love you”. Bucky’s done it more than a dozen times to dames he hasn’t loved simply because it’s what you say. But the first time they danced like this, like it mattered, though they both hadn’t admitted it mattered at the time, Steve had tripped on the edge of the living room’s throw rug and had clung to Bucky like he was dangling off the edge of Lady Liberty. 

Steve had had an expression of pure astonishment, as if the option of not hitting the floor had never occurred to him. And Bucky had said, “I’ve got you,” and Steve had said “I know.” Then they had just stared at each other because it was the absolute root of truth. 

In the tent, with Vera Lynn crooning from the phonograph and the lamps looking so warm, the war raging all around them, in their pasts and futures, barely suspended from the present, Steve murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

Bucky leans forward, the barest of kisses, fitting his lips against Steve’s. “I know,” he whispers. He would never let Steve fall and he knows Steve would never let him fall. He knows it like he knows the back of his hand. It isn't I love you and yet it is—and yet it’s more. Because they know where they belong and it’s with each other.


End file.
